


you just might see a ghost tonight

by mornen



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Chance Meetings, Horror, M/M, One Shot, Sad Ending, haunted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26111017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornen/pseuds/mornen
Summary: Maeglin does not tell him that he is from Gondolin. (He is not from Gondolin.) He does not tell him that he is from Nan Elmoth. (He was from Nan Elmoth.) He does not tell him that he knows his sword. He does not ask from where he got it. He holds Anglachel on his lap as Turambar sleeps. He turns it.Sometimes it speaks to him, whispers Maeglin in Eöl’s voice.
Relationships: Maeglin | Lómion/Túrin Turambar
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	you just might see a ghost tonight

Maeglin’s wandered too far because he couldn’t wander before. He was a prisoner then, and a prisoner now. Because you can’t leave home. Because you can’t leave Gondolin. But he has now. And he’s wandered too far, and he doesn’t know where he’s come from or where he wants to go because this is being lost, and he’s felt lost his whole life, but now he’s lost like could die in the woods lost. He won’t though. Because he’s gone too far, but he’s come too far, and every step is a bell of freedom. Maybe he could fly now.

He’s in a forest. He’s always in a forest. A forest with trees like walls. Or a city with walls that are cliffs from which can fall but never, ever fly. And he’s dreamt of falling, because that’s what you do when you’ve seen it that close. But he’s never hit the ground before he wakes. Maybe that means his fall will be gentle. He has a piece of black leather bound around his neck and it means to him that he has never been free and means nothing to anyone else.

He meets a man in the forest who also doesn’t have a story of where he is from. That’s what makes them matched. The man is Turambar, and maybe Maeglin can piece out a past behind that name, but he doesn’t ask it. And Turambar doesn’t ask him why his name is Maeglin Lómion. And Maeglin doesn’t ask where Turambar is from; Turambar doesn’t ask him. Because the truth is, that probably neither of them have a good answer.

Because Maeglin is from a prison, and Turambar must be from a hell by the way he screams in his sleep, so soft it’s like a whimper. But it still strips his throat and makes his voice hoarse in the mornings. By the pain that cannot, will not, leave his blue eyes. Eyes bluer than the sky and brighter than hope. By the way he weeps in the evening, silent, while tears run down his face.

Maeglin does not ask. Maeglin does not want to answer.

Turambar rests his strong hand on his face and studies his face.

‘Maeglin,’ he says, voice hoarse again. ‘Lómion.’ His fingers brush over Maeglin’s lashes. Maeglin does not withdraw. He thinks maybe he should. He is dealing with one of the Edain. And what does he know of them?

Turambar kisses his mouth beneath the branches of the trees, close enough to knock against their heads. Reaching. Always reaching.

Maeglin does not tell him that he is from Gondolin. (He is not from Gondolin.) He does not tell him that he is from Nan Elmoth. (He was from Nan Elmoth.) He does not tell him that he knows his sword. He does not ask from where he got it. He holds Anglachel on his lap as Turambar sleeps. He turns it.

Sometimes it speaks to him, whispers _Maeglin_ in Eöl’s voice.

Because he is in prison. Always in prison. In prison with no escape and no answers.

He lies beside Turambar in the dark. He is beautiful. That’s why he lies beside him night after night and does not leave. Where would he return? He thinks that Turgon may be growing mad with grief. He touches the leather about his neck. He thinks that he may be mad. Maybe he lost himself in Nan Elmoth years ago and he will never find himself no matter how far he runs.

 _Maeglin,_ Anglachel taunts. _Maeglin, you cannot leave me._

Maeglin turns his back on Anglachel and meets the blue of Turambar’s eyes in the gloam. He holds his breath. Now Turambar might ask him a question. Why does my sword know your name? Why does it haunt you? But Turambar says nothing, and Maeglin lets his breath go.

Of course Turambar did not hear it. Maeglin is just mad.

He lets Turambar undress him. Take him. He holds his breath when Turambar comes inside him.

Sometimes he thinks he feels his fëa slipping away. But that cannot be true. It’s just another mistake he’s made. Someday he’ll slip away in the night while Turambar sleeps and find his way back to Gondolin, deep beneath the mountains.

And that will be a prison forever unless he can take the crown. He slides one finger beneath the band around his neck. Turambar watches him. Maeglin feels Turambar’s heart against his arm. It will not beat forever. Turambar’s skin is hot against his.

They are both beautiful. Turambar with dark skin and black hair, with eyes too blue to be mistaken for any other colour. Maeglin with skin as white as ash and black hair, with blue eyes that lose their colour under any new light and take whatever shade that might be nearby. And that is why they lie tangled in each other’s arms, asking no questions even as Anglachel whispers, _Maeglin,_ and Turambar’s eyes gleam with a recognition that means Maeglin may not be as mad as he guessed.

They both hear it.

Anglachel says, Maeglin, and Turambar’s lips move from Maeglin’s to the velvet skin of his earlobe.

‘Why?’ Turambar starts, beginning the first question he has ever asked Maeglin. Maeglin closes his eyes. This is the night where he will slip out and run away, making for the mountains, the darkness of the underground. Because this only works when they both have no background, and it is just heat in the night, skin and teeth, lips and hands, gripping and grasping, dragging, kissing, fighting for breath, sweat dripping down his back, focusing on nothing but the now and the blueness of Turambar’s eyes. Turambar runs his fingers from Maeglin’s jaw, down along his neck. His finger leave the ghost of touch on Maeglin’s skin. He touches the leather bound around his neck. ‘Why do you never take this off?’ he asks, and they both know it is not the question he started before, but it is the only question he can think of now. Because there is nothing to them that is real.

Maeglin stares at him. The question binds them together like iron chains. It is not a question that you ask if you have heard ghost stories. Maeglin does not answer it.

‘Lómion,’ Turambar whispers. He kisses his neck just above the band.

Maeglin lies beside him until Turambar sleeps. He kisses him, rises in the dark, and unbinds the collar. He ties it around the hilt of Anglachel and slips out into the forest. The wind beats the branches about him. You cannot ask questions of the haunted.

He makes for Gondolin.


End file.
